


Bitter Solitude

by Ealasaid



Series: A City In Shadows [10]
Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Mobsterswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’d all get angry and bolster each other out of black rages and check the viciousness of violent impulses, at and the end of the day you’d all wind up in your apartment celebrating a job well done.</p>
<p>Not tonight though, you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Solitude

It’s been three bloody weeks. Not bloody in the colloquial sense, but legitimately blood-related; you’ve spent those three weeks clearing out the Sharp Shooters, a gang who’d taken root in the blocks between Seventh and Kearney. They weren’t particularly numerous, but they were sneaky, and every one of them had like three bolt holes.  
  
They’d scattered with your luck, and made it incredibly difficult to find them, even with Inny’s skills at research, Delinquent's persistence, and your general cunning. By the time you’d slaughtered them all—and their associates—three fucking weeks had passed and you’d killed enough people that for once, you were getting kinda sick of it.  
  
You tossed the last one’s body—what was left of it—into a run-down fountain in the middle of the Shooters’ gang as a message. He’d been a bitch to find and you’d taken your time beating the shit out of him because you were just that frustrated. You were still out of breath from the fight, splattered in gore, and high on adrenaline. Inny was scouring the murder scene clean—you could see the blaze as the apartment building went up from the fountain. Somewhere, sirens started wailing.  
  
No one was around though, and so you stayed put for a bit. It was a bad idea, but you were having a hard time calming down, and you didn’t want to snap at Inny or Delinquent. Having to deal with arduous tasks was one of the few times you were totally focused on the group for some reason; throughout the duration of destroying rival gangs or a prolonged political gambit when you were all strung out on your toes, you were _alive_ and it was you and Inny and Delinquent and you operated like smooth sons of bitches and you were unstoppable. You’d all get angry and bolster each other out of black rages and check the viciousness of violent impulses, at and the end of the day you’d all wind up in your apartment celebrating a job well done. Not tonight though, you think.

The adrenaline’s gone as fast as it came and the night is flat and humid, just warm enough to be miserable. Everything’s muted, and within seconds you’re disgusted at what a mess you are. Your clothes have a few rips and you’ve got one or two cuts from the hidden shiv the girlfriend of the guy had whipped out, but mostly it’s the blood and other things soaking into your jacket and drying on your skin from where you ripped the two to pieces that’s got you icked out. You briefly consider jumping into the fountain to clean up a bit, but the water’s scummy and smells a little off.  
  
Innovator comes out of nowhere. “We should get out of here,” he tells you, normal hesitance gone. When you turn around his pupils are blown and he looks slightly mad with the deranged smile on his face and soot smudges everywhere—he does so love his destruction. He’s the complete opposite of you right now, you’re sure, because the frustration from the past three weeks is still _there,_ even after you finished the job. It’s like you haven’t just crossed the last name off the list and left him in the fountain, and that really irks you.  
  
“I know,” you snap before you can stop it, and shut your mouth. You were going to try not to yell because damn it, you’re a team. Or something. You should be celebrating, not fighting, but—  
  
He cocks a head like you’re an absurdly new occurrence in the universe. “Then why haven’t you?” he asks curiously. You know it’s curious. He’s probably fucked on whatever high he gets from engineering the destruction of things. It’s still hard to keep from screaming at him in reply.  
  
“Because,” you grit out. “Do I need a reason? Go back to the base ‘r go home, I’ll be right after you.”  
  
He blinks and you can see him snap out of his zone. He wilts a little at the harsh tone and somewhere inside you’re smashing your head against the wall at your stupidity, but that’s not the part in charge and you don’t say things to calm him down or build him back up. You run a hand through your hair and bite your tongue to keep it from lashing out some more, and you spin sharply on one heel and kick the fountain edge.  
  
“This good?” you demand. You know it’s fine, you don’t need his second opinion.  
  
“Y-yeah,” he replies, subdued. You’re angry at him for the guilt that pounds against the back of your skull in time to what you suspect is a heartbeat, and your fingernails are digging into the palms of your hands as you clench them tightly.  
  
“Right,” you spit, and wink out of that spot to your apartment with a crack of purple fire. You’re going to have to apologize to him tomorrow if you remember, but the damage has already been done.

With the decrease of energy from the spell, you’re tired. The frigidity of your swanky suite is like a slap to the face and everything just feels worse than before, if that was even possible. You strip hurriedly in the kitchen with its cool tile that is easily cleaned and dump your clothes in the trash with a faint twinge of regret for another nice suit totally ruined, and stalk stark naked to the bathroom where you turn on all four of the shower heads—fuck water preservation—and soak for what feels like an hour, leaning against one wall once the last traces of red have disappeared down the drain.

  
You probably fall asleep at some point; when you wake up, the water’s significantly cooler and you ache everywhere. You’ve got a migraine, or something approaching it, your muscles are wrung out, and you barely manage to stumble out of the shower and pull a towel off the rack. You lean against the counter with it wrapped around you and stare at the shadows you’ve got under your eyes in the mirror and the bruises covering your torso. One of the cuts looks nastier than it did initially; grumbling you find a band-aid and slap it on top, not paying much attention to whether it actually covered much of the cut.  
  
You’re making your way to the bedroom, still not dry, when Scout’s voice comes out saying “GPI, you all right?” Before you process that shit, he’s in you apartment and you’re going to have to get a new one and the simple fact that Scout managed to track your apartment down (there’s a fleeting feeling of pride in that, what _even_ ), he’s right next to you and frowning in what appears to be concern as he pokes at the place you just band-aid-ed. You can’t help it: you swat his hand away in seconds, turning on him instantly.  
  
“What’re you doing here?” you hiss savagely. He flinches back as you get your hands around his throat and push him back against a wall, acting purely on instinct.  
  
“Heard ya were makin’ trouble,” he manages to croak out.  
  
“So?” you snarl, leaning in close. You’re nose to nose and not entirely in control of yourself, but before you can realise you’ve been split into the tiny fraction smashing it’s head against a wall and the other part squashing it down again, Scout keeps talking and doesn’t let you continue.  
  
“So I was worried,” he gasps. You’re cutting his air off; you’re so surprised at his answer your hands loosen and you stare at him disbelievingly. He massages the places you grab him and goes on, quickly. “What’d ya think? I’m not the police, fuck.”  
  
He gets ahold of you before you can protest and steers you to the couch. “Lemme see what I can do,” he says, and you’re confused enough by the whiplash from what you expect and from what doesn’t happen that you find yourself sitting on your classy-but-uncomfortable furniture with him dabbing peroxide and bandaging you up.  
  
“What?” you manage, thrown off guard by what he’s doing. You have no idea what’s going on, and that scares you. “No, fuck off, what’re you doing?”  
  
Scout glares at you. “Shuddup,” he growls, and worry—is that worry?—flashes across his face as he surveys you in your towel-clad entirety. He must’ve noticed something about your utter inability to comprehend the situation, because the look he’s shooting you softens a little and hesitantly grabs one of your hands that you’d thrown up to push him away with and holds it tightly.

He’s afraid, you realize, and that just confuses you even more because doesn’t he have the upper hand here? He’s got you cornered on the couch and he’s... afraid? Of what?  
  
“You should get some sleep,” he says finally while you’re still gaping at him. “You’ve been—you look like shit,” he amends, skirting around the fact that he knows it was probably you destroying the Sharp Shooters for the past three weeks. “Here, lemme help you.”  
  
You stare at the hand he offers you for a moment before taking it, and though you get up under your own power, he helps you down the hall and into your bedroom where you dazedly are coaxed into pulling on a pair of pants and he guides you to the gigantic bed. It takes him a while to settle you in; you’re edgy, having him walk around your place, but the exhaustion wins over and you finally fall silent on the bed and simply watch him while he tidies the room.  
  
He can’t prolong the task. He starts to leave and you stop him, words without inflection and flat. “Stay,” you say, trying to be commanding but mostly just sounding tired.  
  
Scout turns a little and studies you for a long moment. “You sure?” he asks when it’s clear your patience is wearing thin in the waiting. It’s a tacit acknowledging that he breached your privacy by hunting down your apartment, but you don’t care about that anymore.    
  
“Yeah,” you growl. “Get over here.”  
  
You roll over with some difficulty, but you toss an arm over him after he’s shucked his clothes and gets under the covers with you.


End file.
